Kidnapped on a Friday
by Raphaela Crowley
Summary: On a Friday, roughly two years before the birth of the antichrist, Crowley kidnaps Aziraphale, shoving him into the back of the Bentley and driving away. Aziraphale's fine with it, really, but Gabriel thinks he needs rescuing and wackiness ensues. No Slash. One-shot.


_Kidnapped on a Friday_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

_About two years before the infamous botched baby-swap:_

Three demons lurked at a corner table in the coffeehouse across the street from _A.Z. Fell & Co_ (this was the local Soho used-bookshop, known, such as it was, for having surprisingly erratic customers and even more erratic opening times).

It is not in the least odd to place such an emphasis on the bookshop in this scene, as that is exactly what the three demons involved were doing.

More specifically, they were placing malicious emphasis on its owner, who they could see in the window, sipping from a white mug while he watched the steady rain run off the pavement and form big splashy puddles on the road.

None of the servers came to the table to offer the demons coffee, though they'd been sitting there for hours. If asked, they'd have said there was no table there – never had been – as the owner was not such a dunce so as to put a large table where it plainly did not fit. Indeed, there was something insubstantial about the demons' table. It was inky and shadowy and shimmered darkly when you stared directly at it for too long.

There was a fourth demon in the shop – the demon Crowley – who, in contrast to his fellows, was seated at a very real table, mutely agreeing to be served some manner of pastry he had no actual intention of eating in hopes that the clueless server would shut up, thus allowing him to overhear the conversation he was attempting to eavesdrop on.

The three demons at the inky table continued their plotting.

"We'll nab the prissy angel tomorrow evening when he's leaving the shop," the one who seemed to be the leader, as much as there _could_ be a leader of such an overtly narcissistic group, each vying for the top place, decided for them. "I'll distract him as he's locking up, make him drop the keys. Then, when he bends over, you two grab him and pin him to the ground until he stops squirming. If he doesn't, I'll come over and kick him in the face, knock out some teeth – that'll show him. And that's when–"

Inexplicably, a shadow cast itself over them and there came the sound of running liquid as coffee was poured into mugs they hadn't had a moment ago.

"Should I have asked if any of you prefer tea?" said a dark, sardonic voice above them.

"Who do you think you–" began the one closest to their maniacally grinning server, who was wearing sunglasses; indoors, and on a grey, rainy day.

"Shut up, you dumbarse idiot, don't you know who that _is_? That's _Crowley_!"

"The bloke who done mucked up the M25 for the mortals?" It pointed a gnarled thumb at the sever. "_This _ginger muppet? I don't believe it for a second. You're daft."

"He en't, neither, you clown! That's Crowley all right. Show some bleeding respect before he done tells Duke Hastur on us for being shite to him."

"Ahem." Crowley twisted his mouth impatiently and shook the coffee pot in his hand, which shimmered just as oddly as the table had before he'd sauntered over to it. The brown liquid – maybe not actually coffee after all – inside it sloshed in slow motion. The tips of his shoulder-length hair actually seemed to curl slightly, in perfect time with the folding of his frown lines, as if from aggravation at being kept waiting.

"I'm looking at this wanker right now," it argued, oblivious, "and I can see plain as day it isn't any _Crowley_."

Crowley slammed down the coffee pot and lifted his sunglasses. "Look _again_!" Yellow snake eyes glared back at it.

It gulped.

"Crowley!" the other two chorused, lifting up their mugs as if they were toasting him.

"What...but...but what you doin' working in a coffeehouse, mate?" it stammered.

"Move over." Crowley knocked the moron out of its seat then took it for himself, requiring the dense demon to now stand in his presence if it wanted to be in on the rest of the conversation.

He did not bother explaining that of course he did not work here – no real server would have bothered with a table that didn't exist.

Lackeys this stupid really shouldn't, he believed, ever be allowed out of Hell. They just embarrassed themselves and their superiors. Made Hastur and Ligur look like geniuses in comparison.

Sadly, dumb as they were, they were clearly just smart enough to do exactly what they were planning – which was precisely why Crowley knew he needed to intervene before the unwitting angel across the street got hurt.

"Now what's this I hear about you three planning to kidnap an angel?" He rested his elbows on the table, placed his chin on his wrist, and stared at the one who'd been making the plan.

"There's this angel, works in that big fire hazard across the road – we're gonna grab him tomorrow."

"And what, may I ask, are you planning to _do_ with him?"

"Have a little fun. Torture him. Pull out a few feathers from his wings and make him eat 'em."

"_I'm_ going to hit him, repeatedly, in the face, till he bleeds."

"Hold up," it cut in, sullenly, "don't be telling Crowley all this." It turned from the other two demons to Crowley. "I mean, it's not that we don't want you with us, but we don't want you with us! It's _our_ angel – we found him first. Get your own."

Crowley cocked his head at it. "Technically, it's _my_ angel. I'm the one who's been battling against his thwarts and unbearable celestial goodness for six thousand years while you lot sit under a leaky drainpipe in Hell and compare desk stains. _You _get _your _own."

"Oh."

"Yeah..." He slipped off his sunglasses, breathed on them for dramatic effect, wiped them, then slid them back on. "I don't know who you think you are – coming up here and trying to take somebody else's nemesis. It's really rather appalling of you. _Cheating_, I'd call it." He sniffed. "I think I'll bring it up to the dark counsel next time I'm down in Hell."

"We just wanted to see him suffer."

"Oh, don't give me that," Crowley simpered insincerely. "You insult me."

"Can't you look the other way this once?" it asked. "We'll give him back, sure as anything, vomiting up his own feathers and hardly in any state to thwart you. How is this a bad deal?"

"You three wouldn't know what you're doing." He pointed out at the bookshop. "That angel has seen a lot of demonic doings. Reads a lot. He's actually very clever. Keeps me having to think up new ways around him, I can tell you that."

It was lucky for Crowley that the demons had looked away, back at him, because currently, Aziraphale was plainly visible in his window, hopping around brandishing a rolled up newspaper trying to hit a fly. And failing. His mouth was also forming cut-off swear words and awkward euphemisms, like somebody trying very, very hard not to curse.

He did not appear, in that moment, very formidable.

"Almost sounds like you like him."

They looked out at the bookshop again, just in time for a still-thrashing Aziraphale to lose his balance tripping over his own desk chair and comically fall over.

Crowley winced. "Noooo, course not. He's an_ angel_. They're none of them bastard enough for my tastes – you know that. I'm just saying _you_ couldn't handle him. Any of you."

"You tellin' us Mr. Webble Wobble Always Fall Down over there is going to put up a fight?" snapped the planner, blowing out his blue-grey cheeks and folding his arms across his skinny chest. "I don't believe it."

"Guys, he used to guard the eastern gate of Eden with a flaming sword," Crowley reminded him. "Think about it."

"You got past him. The whole apple thing."

"Exactly._ I_ did."

"So you're saying you'll show us how it's done, then."

That was not what Crowley had been saying, but he couldn't see a way out of it. "Yeah, if you like."

"You'll kidnap him tomorrow." This was not phrased as a question.

"Friday." He had to establish some sense of control over this quickly escalating situation. "I'll kidnap him on Friday."

"What, _Friday_?" growled the planner, through angry blue lips. "Giving yourself time to let the plan leak to the fat angel?"

"Oh, right," laughed Crowley, "like I'm really going to just walk up to him and announce exactly when I'm kidnapping him."

* * *

"By the way, angel, I'm kidnapping you one o'clock this Friday."

Aziraphale stopped feeding the St James's ducks and stood with a fist full of bread-bits, turning at the waist to stare at Crowley in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

Crowley threw a wad of bread at the back of a drake's head. "I'm going to walk into your bookshop, grab you, then shove you into the Bentley and drive off while you beg me to slow down." He grimaced. "Unavoidable, I'm afraid."

"Sounds like a typical afternoon with you, my dear," muttered Aziraphale. "Where exactly would you be taking me?"

"I haven't worked that bit out yet," he confessed. "I just need to make it look like you're suffering. There's been some demonic trouble – I need to be seen making you regret the day God made you."

Aziraphale considered this. "Ah. I see. Can we go to lunch afterwards?"

"Yes, sure, why not?"

"Somewhere nice?"

"Yes, somewhere nice," Crowley agreed, rolling his eyes. "Angel, aren't you the least bit concerned that there are demons who want to see you kidnapped and tortured?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

"Then what's bothering you? I can see plain as day _something _still is."

"I'm trying to think what to _bring_," admitted Aziraphale, with a shake of his head. "I suppose I'll have to pack an overnight bag. In case this kidnapping takes a little longer than we're expecting. Tell you what, I'll have a suitcase ready Thursday night and slip it into the Bentley, if you wouldn't mind terribly driving by early."

"Sure, I can do that," Crowley agreed. "Oh, and if you want that pastry from the coffeehouse I didn't eat, I've saved it for you. It's in the Bentley."

* * *

Aziraphale closed up early on Friday, about an hour before he was meant to be snatched from the shop, and waited by the register.

Exactly at one, Crowley stormed into the shop and Aziraphale made a dramatic show of waving his hands with his fingers splayed and exclaiming how they were closed and demons were not welcome in this establishment, if he pleased.

"Get thee behind me, foul fiend!" He lowered his voice and covered his mouth with his hand. "Where are they?"

Crowley grabbed him by the front of his vest and pushed him against the wall. Leaning in, he whispered. "They're across the street – at the coffeehouse. Make it look good."

As they moved away from the wall, Crowley sprung at him. The way Crowley intended it, it was supposed to look dramatic, like supernatural creatures of a Biblical nature in an epic wresting match.

Evil overpowering Good.

Instead, it looked much more like Tigger tackling Winnie the Pooh.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" shrieked Aziraphale melodramatically, lolling his head to the side, probably wondering when was the last time he'd cleaned the rug.

Crowley appeared slightly embarrassed by the overacting. "Uh, no, don't do it like that."

Aziraphale lifted his head. "Sorry."

"Wait a minute... Did you cover all the windows?" Crowley's brow furrowed as he looked around, letting go of Aziraphale and stumbling to his feet. "It seems darker in here than usual."

"Yes, I'd nearly forgotten – I did that yesterday, as a precaution. Just in case, you know."

"They can't see through _walls_, angel."

"Oh, so that whole performance we just did was completely unnecessary?" Aziraphale straightened his rumpled clothes awkwardly.

"It would seem so."

"I'll just get in the car, then." The angel began walking to the door.

"No, I have to be seen _dragging_ you," sighed Crowley. "Remember?"

"Very well. Can I at least put on my coat? It's nippy out."

"Yeah," said Crowley leaning against the register amiably. "Go ahead. I'll wait."

* * *

The three demons were, unfortunately, not the only ones with their eyes currently turned to the bookshop. The archangel Gabriel had arrived on earth, intending to stop in to see Aziraphale and give his usual brand of vague commendation in the hope he would not have to see the Principality again for another dozen years, if not longer.

It had been just something he was going to check off his to-do list so he could move onto more important things.

That is, until he saw the demon Crowley dragging Aziraphale out of the bookshop while he kicked and screamed very ineffectively until he was deposited into the back of a black car.

"God will punish you, serpent! Bruise you in the head, what," Aziraphale wailed, sticking his head out.

"I'm already damned, you fool. It's _you_ who'll be bruised in the head." Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale's head and gave another push, so that the angel went further in, and then promptly slammed the door shut.

Gabriel sighed. Perhaps if Aziraphale lost that gut of his and stayed in better shape, not sullying his body with gross matter, he would have been able to fight off the demon himself instead of inconveniencing Heaven like this.

Because now_ he_ had to cancel all_ his_ plans for the rest of the day and rescue the foolish Principality.

He didn't notice the three demons grinning in the window of the coffeehouse, and they didn't notice him.

* * *

"So how long until your friends work out that they can't actually _see_ you torture me if they don't have directions to where you're taking me?" Aziraphale asked, popping up from the back seat.

"I give it five minutes," said Crowley, making a sharp left turn. "Once they've finished congratulating themselves on a job well done. They've probably forgotten my kidnapping you wasn't their original plan in the first place. They're not exactly the brightest flickering bulbs in Hell, if you catch my drift."

"Well, it was very kind of you to stop them hurting me."

"Shut up." Crowley bristled.

"It _was_." Aziraphale climbed over into the passenger seat. "Though I do wish you'd slow down. It's very hard to get up here with you doing..." His eyes widened at the speedometer. "Ninety miles an hour? In central London? _Crowley_!"

"What?"

"You're going to get us discorporated."

"Oh, relax, we're fine."

Aziraphale could have sworn he heard somebody screaming as they made a beeline for the pavement, trying to get out of the way of the speeding Bentley. And another car Crowley narrowly missed colliding with proceeding to blare its horn.

"Can I at least put on some music?" Aziraphale asked. "My nerves can't take this."

"There's nothing in this car you'd like – it's all been in here longer than two weeks."

"Oh. _Pity_."

A siren wailed.

It was not a police siren. Crowley was pretty good at tuning those out – blasting Queen helped in that area.

It was a high, trumpety wailing that was _attempting _to sound like a police siren. The vehicle behind them was not a proper vehicle at all (no wheels were actually touching the ground or turning), but a disguised Heavenly chariot flashing blue lights of a celestial hue.

Aziraphale looked back. "Gabriel and Michael. I think possibly Sandalphon and Uriel, too."

"Shit, shit, shit!" Crowley rocked back and forth and slapped the steering wheel. "_Whyyy_?"

"I suppose," Aziraphale offered, "you could just pretend to forfeit me to them. Tell the demons you were caught off guard by the archangels. No shame in that." He paused. Then, "Well, of course, we'd have to forget about lunch, but under the circumstances..."

"The thing is, angel, if I just hand you over to them without a reason it'll look suspicious and Hell will have three demons to back up a story of my alleged incompetence."

"That's hardly fair."

"It's Hell," Crowley reminded him. "_Fair_ isn't really their thing. Not to mention, the demons will just try to reschedule this kidnapping business and I can't guarantee they'll include me next time."

"Do you have a better idea?" Aziraphale's tone changed, giving away a twinge of weary annoyance. "One single better idea?"

"I _do_, actually."

"I'm all ears."

"We lose the archangels, hide out in a fancy hotel somewhere until they've gone. Have lunch in the formal dining room. They won't suspect a thing."

"I have to admit that sounds...nice..."

"Take the wheel, angel."

Aziraphale turned pale. "You know I can't drive, Crowley."

"You're not driving, just lean over and take the wheel for a moment."

"What are you going to do?"

"_Trust _me." He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. "Oi, Gabriel! Long time no see!"

Gabriel's voice, as if from an echoing megaphone, blared, "_Demon Crowley, pull over and relinquish the Principality or we will be forced to take drastic measures!_"

"No, I think I'm going to keep him for bit," Crowley called back. "Enjoying the company. Rare treat, entertaining an angel."

"_Listen here, you vile snake, you are going to pull over right now or else–_" There was a deep intake of breath, and a moment of static. "_Did you just stick your tongue out at me_?"

"Suckerssss...!"

"_Crowley_!" Aziraphale hissed, still holding the wheel. "What the hell are you playing at? You're only making them angry."

"All right, Gabriel," Crowley called, "here's how it's going to work. You give me a five minute head start and I won't slit the angel's throat.

"It would be bad for both of us – you'd have a discorporated body to replace, paperwork to process, and I'd have a whole lot of blood in my car. Messy situation."

"_If you think for one minute I will allow you to humiliate–_"

Crowley ducked back into the Bentley. "Aziraphale, do me a favour. Go to your window and tell the nice archangels I've got a gun and am about to blow your brains to kingdom come."

"You've just told them you were going to slit my throat."

"I changed my mind."

"But... Where would you have gotten a gun?"

"I willed it into existence. With my mind. Or something. Look, it doesn't matter." He motioned at the opposite window as it rolled down. "Just make it sound good."

"Right. I'll give it a try, then." Aziraphale leaned out and waved. "Hello, Gabriel! Hello, Michael! So nice to see you both!"

"_Are you all right, Aziraphale?_" This time, the megaphone voice seemed to be Michael's.

"Oh, yes. I'm fine. Just Tickety-boo. Thanks for asking."

"No you're _not_," Crowley reminded him sharply, through his teeth.

"Um, right. Apparently, I'm_ not_, actually. He's got a weapon of some kind. A big shooty, cutty one."

"I don't believe this," muttered Crowley.

"And, um," Aziraphale continued, "he's going to use this shooty, cutty thing to discorporate me presently if you don't give him a head start."

"_Don't be afraid, Aziraphale_," Michael's voice called, even as the Heavenly chariot fell behind, letting Crowley take the lead and the Bentley fly down the street. "_Have courage. We will find you!_"

* * *

Sandalphon was feeling motion sick in the back of the celestial chariot and Uriel was fumbling to find a paper bag before he hurled.

Gabriel was currently employing a number of words not very befitting an any angel, let alone one of his high ranking, while Michael, who – more than the others, anyway – seemed truly afraid for Aziraphale, sat very still with her eyes half-closed.

She might actually have been praying.

Or else, perhaps, she was motion sick, too, and merely disguising it better than Sandalphon.

"How long did we say we'd give Crowley?" Gabriel growled.

"Five minutes," said Michael, her tone serene.

"And how long has it been?"

"About three."

"Good enough."

* * *

Aziraphale studied the menu in the formal dining room with a look of contentment on his face. "Oh, look, Crowley, they've got _crepes_."

Crowley was running a finger down the wine list muttering, "Nope, nope, nope..." He stopped. "Ah." He snapped his fingers at a passing server. "This one, here. When you've got a moment."

The ambience was delightful – soft, live music with a pianist and saxophone player was featured, the lighting had an amber-ish hue, and some curvy woman was whisper-singing something nobody could properly hear over the noise of clinging glasses and the rustling of moving servers yet were all inexplicably soothed by.

Suddenly, though, the light brightened as if somebody had messed with the dimmer switch and turned it all the way up. The music, though still being performed by the same musicians, took on a tinny edge as if they were playing to accompany a movie scene with a lot of blue skies and clouds and inspirational-looking mountains.

"_Shit_!" swore Crowley, spying Gabriel and Michael entering the dining room.

Aziraphale blanched. "How did they find us?"

Thinking fast, Crowley lifted the edge of the tablecloth. "Quick, get under there. Wait for my signal, then crawl into the lobby. I'll lose them again and meet you there."

Aziraphale frowned reproachfully. "You know, I haven't ordered yet."

"We'll get something later," he hissed. "Just do it."

The angel disappeared under the table just in time. Gabriel's eyes narrowed in on Crowley and he stormed over, Michael speed-walking a couple paces behind him.

"Gabriel, _hi_." Crowley smiled rakishly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Cut the nonsense. Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The angel you kidnapped."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

The server appeared, with_ two_ wineglasses.

Gabriel looked at the glasses, then back at Crowley. "Expecting company?"

"Perhaps."

The server poured the wine in both glasses and left, not noticing the angels, or that Crowley was speaking to anyone.

"Gabriel," hissed Michael urgently, "this isn't good – he may have backup."

Under the table, Aziraphale struggled to regulate his breathing. He could see the outline of Gabriel's expertly tailored trousers – the archangel was that close to where he was hidden.

"Where _is_ the Principality?" Gabriel demanded, shushing Michael with a frustrated wave in her direction.

"We're in a hotel, where do _you _think?"

"A room?" Michael guessed. "You've got him tied up in a room here?"

"Sure. If you like," Crowley bluffed. "Yeah. A room. A nice roomy room. And you've got no way of guessing which one – so I guess you'd better just leave me to the business of torturing him. Better luck next time."

Gabriel backed up slightly. Crowley snapped his fingers under the table, signalling for Aziraphale to begin crawling out. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed the angel had made it to the doorway and was standing up and leaving without either of the archangels' noticing.

"Well," he said, at last, taking a sip of wine and putting some money on the table, "lovely seeing you all – but I've got to be going. _Ciao_."

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale thought they were in the clear when they met in the lobby. They thought they had a few minutes before the two archangels came out of the dining room and reconsidered what to do about rescuing Aziraphale. Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on the three demons Crowley was kidnapping Aziraphale for being camped right outside the lobby's front door, rubbing their hands together.

"We'll go the back way," Crowley decided, only to have to come to a screeching halt when he noticed Sandalphon and Uriel out there with some Heavenly version of binoculars, scanning the side of the building for activity in the windows.

Perhaps Gabriel had already gotten word to them and they were trying to find Aziraphale.

"Well, that's it," sighed Aziraphale. "There's no way out."

"The Heaven there _isn't_!" snorted Crowley, recovering quickly. "You go back to the lobby and get us a room. Just don't let those demons see you. I'll fetch your suitcase from the Bentley. We're checking in."

"You can't be serious," Aziraphale began, in some bewilderment, only to realise Crowley absolutely _was_.

* * *

The music playing in the lift was a pop remix of _Angels Among Us_, which Aziraphale found amusing, and Crowley definitely did not.

"What room did you get us?"

"272," Aziraphale told him.

"Short ride, then, at least."

Aziraphale began humming.

"Stop that."

"Sorry."

When they arrived at the room and let themselves in, Aziraphale drew in a breath of appreciation. "_Ooh_!" The angel took in the spaciousness and the two large beds covered in silky comforters, piled with pump pillows and individually wrapped mints. "This is certainly very upscale."

Crowley's eyes darted back and forth behind his sunglasses. He was repressing the urge to immediately begin stealing everything that wasn't nailed down.

With a grunt, he lifted Aziraphale's suitcase onto the bed nearest the window and dropped it there. "What did you pack in here? Bricks?"

"No, don't be silly – just clothes and such."

Crowley gave him a look.

"All right," he conceded, his cheeks turning slightly pink, "I may have put a few books in there, too. Just in case."

"So, somebody tells you they're kidnapping you, and your first instinct is to figure out what you're going to read in case there's any downtime?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "So how long do you think it'll take our respective sides to give up?"

"Oh," said Crowley, with forced carelessness, helping himself to the contents of a large fruit basket. "I give it a couple hours, tops." He offered Aziraphale one of the fruits. "Apple?"

* * *

"I don't care," Gabriel snapped at Uriel, snatching the binoculars from him, "if we have to be here _all night_ – I am not going to let that smug demon make a fool out of me. We're getting Aziraphale back, then I'm going to have a long talk with him about his carelessness. The trouble he's putting us through, I can't even–"

* * *

The three demons had their heads bent close together. "What do you think they're doing right now?"

"I bet Crowley's pulling off his fingernails one by one."

"Yeah, and making him _eat_ 'em."

"What _is _your obsession with making angels eat things?"

"It amuses me."

"Takes all sorts, I guess."

"Either way, I bet he's suffering the ultimate torture."

* * *

It was actually _Crowley _who seemed to be suffering at the moment.

Aziraphale had switched on the television, delighted to find out their room came with a selection of over four hundred channels. Crowley insisted that was hardly impressive, as he got_ twice that many_ at home in his flat, but Aziraphale still proceeded to flick happily through the channels until he found something he wanted to watch.

Whatever it was had completely horrified Crowley, who winced at the screen in mute terror, occasionally making little noises of distress or putting his hand over his mouth like he was going to be sick.

When it was over, Aziraphale finally seemed to notice Crowley's displeasure – or, at the very least, that he was doing everything short of literally hiding behind the large pillow he was holding in his lap.

"I_ say_, my dear, what's wrong?" He turned to face Crowley's bed.

Crowley tossed the pillow at him. And missed. "What's _wrong_? How can you ask me that? Why would you put on an animated snuff film? That was repulsive."

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, with slow concern, "it was _Rikki Tikki Tavi_. It's a classic."

"They killed all the snakes!" he cried, gesturing angrily at the screen.

"I...I suppose they did..." Aziraphale hadn't thought of it that way. Probably it wasn't the most relaxing thing for Crowley – formerly Crawly – to view. Oops. "Terribly sorry about that. The snakes _were_ bad, though."

"Spare me your pro-mongoose agenda, angel," he growled. "Anyhow, I want a turn – I'm picking the next movie."

"Now, Crowley, we agreed that whenever we watch television together,_ I_ get to control the channel."

"I never agreed to that!"

"Yes, you most certainly did," Aziraphale argued. "Do you remember that one time in the bookshop I agreed – against my better judgement, I might add – to allow you to illegally wire cable television and you ended up with nothing but five channels of scantly-clad young persons running around some millionaire's kitchen eating yogurts and flinging their undergarments at each other? After that, we agreed–"

"No, _you_ decided," Crowley insisted, voice rising in pitch from frustration. "There was no agreement on my part!"

"Hush, dear, I'll find us _something_... Oh, look, this will make you happy." Aziraphale beamed at him. "They have a whole channel dedicated to that bebop music you like!"

* * *

"What's happening?" Uriel asked Sandalphon, who had located Aziraphale's window and was trying to judge what was going on by the silhouettes he could see through the curtains.

"I think the demon is taunting him," Sandalphon said, adjusting the binoculars. "He appears to be jiggling about in front of... Well, I _think_ that's Aziraphale, but it might be a lamp... Now he's bouncing up and down..."

"I wonder why Gabriel hasn't gone in and put a stop to it yet," Uriel said, anxiously. "Aziraphale must be near to tears by now."

* * *

There _were_ tears shining in Aziraphale's eyes, but they were from holding back his laughter, not wanting to hurt Crowley's feelings. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he blurted, "Oh, you _poor _demon."

Crowley stopped and looked at him curiously.

"You think you can dance," he explained, sadly.

In all fairness, Crowley's dancing _had_ devolved from awkward twerking to a series of high-kicks and thrusts that would have made Elaine Benes blush. He wasn't even on the beat, which made it even sadder to watch.

Still, he was mildly offended. "Well, let's see you do better."

"Provided it's a gavotte, I'm sure I _could_."

"The gavotte hasn't been in style for _ages_," exclaimed Crowley. "Besides, I thought your lot didn't dance _ever_. When did you learn to gavotte?"

"Do you remember in the late 1800s when you were asleep?"

"Yes," said Crowley, tetchily.

"_Then_."

"Oh." He made a popping noise with his mouth. "I see."

"I could teach you, if you wanted."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Oh, come on," said Aziraphale, springing up and taking the demon's hand as if he'd already agreed, "it'll be _fun_."

* * *

Michael came up behind Sandalphon and Uriel. "Gabriel's trying to infiltrate from inside the building – how's it going out here?"

Uriel looked discomfited. "I think they're fighting. It looked like the demon twisted Aziraphale's arm behind his back a second ago. Now they're just sort of running back and forth and bumping into one another every few seconds. One of them's just fallen over."

"Give me those." Michael snatched the binoculars from Uriel and looked for herself. "Is that a punch? Did Crowley just punch him?"

Sandalphon shook his head. "I don't think so. That's never a punch. It looks like they're just...joining hands...for some reason...wait...they're breaking apart now... What in _blazes_..."

"Oh, Gabriel, please hurry," murmured Michael, face quite taunt, passing the binoculars back to Uriel. "Who knows what's being done to him?"

* * *

"If you _ever _tell anyone about that," gasped Crowley, lying on the floor and staring up at the ceiling, struggling to catch his breath, "I will...I'll do something...to you... I don't know what, but _something_. I swear..."

"I thought you did rather well," Aziraphale said, sitting down on a bulky upholstered chair and fanning himself with the room service menu, which he then looked at with renewed interest. "I'm feeling peckish – what do you say we order something to eat?"

There was a whirring noise and suddenly all the lights and the electric kettle and television were off.

They were sitting in complete darkness.

"Let there be light!" Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

The room filled with a glowing light that probably confused the angels watching from outside to no end. Especially as literally every other window was blacked out.

"Don't do that!" Crowley jerked upward and snapped his own fingers, making the light go away. "Now every supernatural entity for miles know exactly where we are."

Aziraphale winced. "Oh. I hadn't thought..."

Crowley sighed. "Look, angel, sit tight for a moment. Don't draw any more attention to this room. I'll go down to the lobby and find out what's going on."

As soon as Crowley was gone, Aziraphale looked around in the darkness, somewhat bored. "I suppose I could change into my pyjamas."

After some feeling about, he found a small torch and flicked it on so he could see the contents of his suitcase.

When he opened it, he discovered that, atop all the belongings he'd packed, the luggage was overflowing with various stolen items: fruit, a monogrammed towel, a dressing-gown with the hotel's name on it, little bottles of shampoo, the television remote, packets of tea, tiny bars of soap, and half a dozen facecloths.

"Crowley,_ really_!" he exclaimed, and began the laborious task of putting it all back where it came from.

* * *

When Crowley reached the lobby, the first thing he noticed was that the demons were inside now, seated on the sofa in front of the reception desk. The second was a woman with a crying little boy who was being scolded by the hotel manager.

"Please don't be upset with him – he didn't mean it," the child's mother protested. "You know, it's just, he's a little scientist, so curious about wires and things, and–"

"Lady, the entire hotel has no power because of this boy's antics!"

The boy cried harder, tears streaming down his face. "I'm _sorry_, Mum."

"Oh, love, don't." The mother bent down and hugged the sobbing little boy, who buried his red, snot-covered face in her shoulder. "Truly, Newton, it's _not _the end of the world. Don't cry, love."

Crowley was snapped out of the scene by one of the demons waving him over.

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"You got that angel up there crying for his maker yet?"

"Oh, yes, lots of crying. Buckets of...tears..."

"Do we get a turn when you're done, Crowley?"

He stared at the demon, indignant. "Get your own angel."

"But–"

Crowley ignored it and headed for the lifts. They were technically out, because of that little boy's messing with the electricity, but Crowley had made them work so he could come down and investigate – there was no reason he couldn't perform a demonic miracle and make the lift carry him back up again. And there wouldn't be any music, so _that_ was a plus.

A hand gripped his shoulder and whirled him around. "Crowley, this has gone far enough!"

Gabriel. _Again_.

"You're right." Crowley grinned. "I'll take you to him. About done, anyway." He started to step into the lift, Gabriel – as he fully expected him to – shoving past him and demanding he go first. "No problem. Have fun."

And he pushed all the buttons.

Then took the stairs.

* * *

The lift's doors opened and closed rapidly at several floors. Gabriel stared straight ahead, unamused.

Once, stopped briefly on the second floor, he thought he saw someone who looked suspiciously like Aziraphale in a dressing-gown and slippers walking through the darkened corridor with an ice bucket under his arm, but then decided it was probably somebody else.

Not even Aziraphale was stupid enough to escape from a demon's clutches and stop to get some ice for the room.

* * *

"It was just some kid; he shorted the power or something," Crowley told Aziraphale, when he made it back to the room. He noticed something seemed different, off. "Did you leave?"

"Just to get some ice," Aziraphale said. "Nobody noticed."

His eyes landed on the dressing-gown folded neatly on the night-stand. "You've put back all my things!"

"Crowley, those aren't _your_ things, they belong to the hotel – I was morally obligated to return them."

"They_ want _you to take the dressing-gowns!" he protested.

* * *

The lift stopped at the third floor.

Gabriel – signaling Michael and the other two from the nearest window – mouthed that he was going down to the second via the stairs.

Enough was enough. He was going to have to burst in there and snatch Aziraphale out. He just wanted to have some backup when he did it.

* * *

"Bit hot in here with the power out," Aziraphale noted.

"Hmm," said Crowley, still mad about all the stuff the angel had unpacked.

"I think I'll go swimming for a bit," he decided. "Care to join me?"

"You can't go down to the pool – you'd have to pass the lobby. Those demons will see you."

"Nonsense. I'll just go for a dip in the tub."

Crowley gave him a look. "You can't do that."

"Why-ever not, dear boy? Shape and size being optional, I could just shrink myself down. Easy as dancing on the head of a pin."

The demon considered – the angel had a point. And it _was_ rather warm in the room thanks to that damned kid from the lobby. "Race you."

* * *

Michael had her ear to the door of Room 272.

"Can you hear anything?" Gabriel asked her.

She shook her head. "Nothing. I haven't the faintest clue what they're doing in there."

* * *

Crowley's head – full sized as it rose above the surface, only shrinking when he pulled it back under – emerged from the tub, his hair partially stuck to the side of his face. "Marco!"

A moment later, Aziraphale's head, also full-sized, with goggles and a swimming cap, appeared. "Polo!"

* * *

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bam, bam, bam!

Crowley answered the door dripping wet. "Wot?"

Gabriel pushed his way in. "Crowley, tell us where Aziraphale is _now_!"

Crowley pointed behind them, into the still-dark corridor.

"Michael, don't look," Gabriel warned, without taking his eyes off Crowley.

Michael's eyes stopped mid-dart.

"I did bring insurance, you know." Gabriel pulled a vial of something that shimmered from inside his coat pocket. It cast ripples of light across the room and onto all the walls.

Holy Water. _Shit_. Crowley repelled up to the ceiling with a hiss.

"All I have to do is pop the cap and it's _buh-bye Demon Crowley_." He smiled, a slow, calculating smile. "Couldn't do it down in the lobby where somebody might have seen, but you're fair game up here."

Crowley tried to crawl along the length of the ceiling as quickly as possible, feeling like an idiot for opening the door – he'd been cocky and now, if he wasn't fast enough, he was going to pay for it.

Below him, Michael threw up her hands and something, some kind of awful miracle, began to pull him downwards.

Crowley fell to the floor with a _thump_. "Ow!"

Gabriel uncorked the vial with his teeth.

* * *

Aziraphale was beside the tub, attempting to remove water lodged in his ears – he'd forgotten his earplugs back at the shop, hadn't thought of them while packing.

The first sound he properly heard was a crash and then a _thump_.

"Crowley?" He stepped out into the room, blinking in the near-darkness, only for something wet to hit him in the face.

It hardly made an impact, since he was already dripping – he hadn't properly towelled off.

The lights came on, the power having returned, and Aziraphale saw the whole scene properly, realising then how lucky they'd been.

Gabriel was standing there with the empty vial; Crowley was sprawled on the floor.

Holy water.

Meant for Crowley.

Aziraphale had taken it to the face.

He'd have stepped between them if he'd known, of course, but he hadn't. It was dumb luck that Crowley hadn't been destroyed right then, that he'd blundered out at exactly the right moment.

"Damn it, Aziraphale, why do you always get in the way!" snapped Gabriel, kicking the side of the nearest bed. Then, as if from obligation, he added, "Are you all right?"

He looked at Crowley, then at Gabriel.

That was too close... He'd almost... And it was because Crowley was protecting him...

It would have been his own fault.

The angel's knees went weak, the world – too bright, much too bright – spun wildly.

He fell into Michael's arms.

* * *

They were walking together along a path in St. James's Park less than a week later, none the worse for their little adventure.

"I got a commendation," Aziraphale admitted, a trifle embarrassed. "For withstanding the torments of a demon.

"Gabriel didn't want me rewarded for messing up the rescue, and Sandalphon agreed with him, but Michael and Uriel both persuaded him it wasn't really my fault – that it could have happened to anyone.

"The other Principalities – none of which have spoken to me in _years_, mind you – all sent me letters saying how brave they thought I was."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Believe it or not, I got a commendation, too. Kidnapping an angel and trying to discorporate him by drowning him in the bathtub – then using him as a shield when Gabriel tried to throw Holy Water at me." He bit back a laugh, spreading his mouth into a satisfied grin. "I'm a legend down there – and I've got three witnesses."

"But..." stammered Aziraphale, trotting at his friend's side with some confusion. "But... _They_ didn't _see _anything. They were down in the lobby the whole time."

"Yes, but Hell _thinks_ they did – and they're too in awe of me to deny it."

"You could have been_ destroyed_, Crowley," the angel said quietly, stopping and gripping the demon's arm, giving it a light squeeze. "And it would have been my fault. I'm truly sorry about that."

"Don't be," Crowley said, with forced lightness, trying to act like the whole thing hadn't shaken him to the core, not wanting the angel to feel badly over it. "It all worked out, after all, didn't it?"

"We _did_ rather have a lot of fun." Aziraphale smiled, remembering what had been – before the archangels burst in at the end there – the best Friday afternoon he'd had in years.

**A/N: I got a little sillier than usual with this one, I know. But reviews are always welcome all the same. Replies may be delayed. **


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